His quaint opinions
by robot-keayleuu
Summary: John momentarily reflects on his friendship with Sherlock, and contemplates the significance of being a 'friend' to Sherlock Holmes.


The hallway is cavernous and beautifully decorated, with smooth, clean surfaces and ornate glass figurines that catch sunlight from the windows making their surfaces shine, turning over in the light, as if to mimic that of a small prism. There are two men in the room, but neither is paying attention to his surroundings. One is fully aware of his environment-but appreciates nothing-whilst the other could not be more oblivious to his whereabouts, and simply appreciates his companion.

Sherlock stands with his back to Watson, staring straight ahead out of an alcove that overlooks the surrounding grounds. His body remains perfectly still, posture flat, arms folded around his back, hands meeting one another to rest in place against his coat. True, his body may be here, and yet his mind is elsewhere. This is nothing unusual for John.

'Sherlock' he says, but as expected there is no answer.

He tries again.

'Sherlock.'

No response. John sighs, audibly.

'Sherlock.'

By now, he is used to repeating himself. This is no longer condition, but routine, and this knowledge causes his voice to become hardened by a much needed touch of asperity. Rarely, he receives a response from Sherlock. Rarely, he receives any co-operation, and yet, he still can't find it within himself to be particularly forceful toward him. He frowns, pushing that thought to the back of his mind, to perhaps consider it later.

'It's time to go...' he begins. 'Mycroft will be arriving shortly, and it would be better if we leave before that… after… Sherlock…'

But this statement has all the effect of the last. Gritting his teeth in attempt to diffuse the cloud of tension, John approaches Sherlock cautiously, as if he were a small child, and stands beside him on the balcony. They are quite some distance apart, and yet for them both, this is comfortable.

And that is how they stand, for ten minutes, together overlooking the sun.

Sherlock had the mind of the genius, and yet… John couldn't help but think he had the attention span of a child. Well… perhaps as such was not specifically correct. Sherlock only paid attention to the illogical and improbable. Everything else was just clutter; clutter, clutter, clutter- so much clutter in the world.

Two weeks earlier, Sherlock had stood up in their apartment and thrown a magazine across the room, claiming it to be filled with senseless, mundane drivel-nothing of importance to him, and clearly this fact was frustrating. John had sat in his armchair by the fireside, fidgeting while watching the magazine slide its way across their floor, waiting patiently for Sherlock to calm down. Then he'd stood, retrieved the magazine and walked over to Sherlock (who had recovered by wrapping himself into a ball) and explained to him with perseverance that without mundane activities, the world simply would not run. And Sherlock-having an answer for everything-turned his nose into the sofa and sniffed, explaining rapidly without pauses that a tedious and empty world would benefit no one, and that although these events perhaps happened for important reasons, they were other peoples reasons, and that he had intention at all of being sucked into their lifestyle.

Sometimes, John didn't know what to say to Sherlock. All be it, Sherlock was never exactly a gifted socialite (and his charisma and politeness were lacking at best) but he was in need of some communal interaction-some kind of friendship, or companionship, or at least someone to accompany him to make sure he didn't lose his mind-and John knew that better than anyone; for in this situation, he was the martyr. Sherlock was only human, and he could protest as much as he liked, however John knew that deep down he appreciated his company, even if he would not admit it. At least, this was what he told himself, anyway. The truth was, John didn't have a damn clue what went on inside of Sherlock's head. Sherlock spent his time in the autopsy room, examining bodies and investigating the most formidable of murders. It was a life filled with so much misery and malice that it was enough to break down even the most irrepressible of detectives… But not Sherlock. Surely, no one could live a life like that-at least, not alone, anyway. He was lonesome, John was sure of it. Sherlock was just not outward with the way which he expressed it.

Had Sherlock considerably lightened since John had begun accompanying him? John frowned. He'd like to think so, but…

'Sherlock,' repeated john- softer this time. 'It's time to leave.'

Silence lingered for the moment, and then Sherlock turned on his heel.

'Quite.'

And with that, Sherlock Holmes walks away. He does not wait for his companion, but rather takes several swift, paced steps until he disappeared through an arch, and down the beginning of a hallway. Defeated, John Watson sighs. He felt as if sighing is all he ever does, lately, but it was not as if he was unhappy. His feelings were… misplaced. Yes, misplaced. Sherlock was his friend, and if small, frequent irritation was the price that he had to pay for that friendship to remain intact, then so be it. It was his responsibility to endure all that came with him-be it irritation, frustration, vulnerability or contentment. Their destinies had become woven, and their fates were now attached.

Together, they were enough to sustain each other.

Together, they were a team.

Together, the two of them made their way toward the bus station.


End file.
